


They Suit Each Other

by LadyKailitha



Series: The Madcap Adventures of Liya Mason [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Matchmaking, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-07 04:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1115686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKailitha/pseuds/LadyKailitha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is only one thing Liya Mason loves more than trouble, and that's matchmaking. With two successful matches under her belt, she sets her sights on her other brother-in-law and his police officer friend. Quite sure that they will suit each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks be ever to my beta old ping hai, who is absolutely lovely and helps me out with these stories.

Greg thought he was having a good day. He had done all his paper work. He had a juicy case that would interest Sherlock. Anderson was in counseling that had been ordered for his return to work and wouldn't be reporting to duty for at least another week. It wasn't that he was a bad bloke, but Greg, having been on the wrong side of an affair, had little patience for those who cheated. Even if Anderson hadn't cheated since The Fall.

When he walked into his office, he thought that things were looking up. There, sitting on his desk like those dames from the old detective stories he read as a boy, was a buxom red-head. She wore a red pinstriped pencil skirt with matching waistcoat. Her blouse was a black frilly number that looked as expensive as hell. Her shoes were black pumps with red soles. The whole outfit probably cost more than he made in a year.

He instinctively straightened his tie and was about to clear his throat when she brushed her hair back with her left hand, revealing a ring on the appropriate finger. He sighed and shuffled in.

"How can I help you?" he asked, throwing the file he had just gotten from the medical examiner on his desk behind her.

She stuck her hand out and said with a smile, "Liya Mason. I'm here about your most recent case."

"The artist?" he asked. When she nodded he swore. "The Liya Mason? The famous painter?"

"That's me. Are you a fan?" she laughed.

"God, no. My ex-wife was, though. She'd kill me if she knew I was speaking to you."

Liya laughed again. "How friendly was the breakup?"

Greg frowned. "Not very. Why?"

A grin split her face. "How would you like to make her green with envy?"

"Okay..." he hedged, suspicious. His cop radar was going off.

"I'm doing a painting of Oliver Cromwell and Charles I. And you would be perfect for Cromwell."

Greg rocked his head back in shock. It had to be a trick of some sort. Or there was a nasty catch. Not being Sherlock and able to deduce it, he merely asked.

"No catch, I promise. You get revenge on the bitch and I get my Cromwell. It's a win-win situation."

"I suppose I can do that, but we are really off topic. You said you came here about my case, not to acquire a model for your work."

"Tell me she didn't," said the voice from the doorway. Greg turned around to see someone who looked achingly familiar. He had dark, curly hair, broad shoulders and piercing, intelligent blue eyes.

"And you are?" Greg said in gruff tone, crossing his arms over his chest. The man smiled charmingly and Greg was almost there, it was on the tip of his tongue. Who this stranger resembled.

"Her husband."

"Well, Mr Mason--" The stranger cut him off.

"Holmes. My name is Holmes. Sherrinford Holmes to be exact." Greg ran a hand over his face. And there it was. He was the perfect blend of Sherlock and Mycroft.

"Oi, now see here..." he said with the strain of a man whose patience was wearing thin, but again this man cut him off.

"I see you are acquainted with my younger brothers, but be rest assured I am not here to make your job harder."

Greg shook his head in disbelief. That's what Mycroft had said after the second or third kidnapping and look at how many problems the politician had caused over the years. "Holmes" was synonymous with "trouble" as far as Greg was concerned. The man laughed. It was a clear, bright sound and reminded the detective of the few times he made Mycroft genuinely laugh.

"They may be enormous pains in the arse, but they are good lads. Now, about your case..." Sherrinford said.

"Right. How can I help you? I take it Ms. Mason knew the victim."

Liya smiled. "Sherlock said you were clever."

"I very much doubt he said anything of the sort. He calls me an idiot on a very regular basis."

"Aww, I assure you he says some very nice things about you to us. What was he saying only the other day, Sherry?"

"Hmm...that you were the best Scotland Yard has to offer," Sherrinford replied.

Greg laughed. "Well, I'm not sure that's a compliment, considering how he feels about us, but thanks." He moved around his desk and sat down in his chair with a sigh.

"So, Ms Mason, were you friends with Miss Jensen?"

Liya blushed. "Um...no. At the risk of sounding overly dramatic, we were more like enemies, if you will."

"So you were rivals then?" Greg inquired.

"Rivals is such a mild term, but if you prefer it, then yes, we were rivals."

"And when was the last time you saw the victim?" Liya exchanged a glance with Sherrinford that told Greg volumes. He ran his hands over his face in frustration. "Let me guess; you were the last person to see her alive, weren't you?"

"Well, other than the killer obviously," she hedged.

"Ms Mason--" Greg growled.

"Please call me Liya, Detective Inspector," she told him.

And this day had been going so well.... "Liya, you do you realize that not only have you complicated matters exponentially, but you have insured that I cannot go to Sherlock for help on this case. Not if I want it prosecuted."

"Oh." She hadn't even thought of that. "Oh dear."

"Does John know you?" Greg asked, hopeful.

"Well, sort of. I went to uni with him and have recently become reacquainted."

"How recently?" he pressed. If he could get John, then Sherlock could solve it behind the scenes via his flatmate and no one would be the wiser.

"Last month. We had been talking online a bit before that. We invited him to our annual party we throw every year."

"Wait…this was a month ago?"

Liya nodded.

"I think I was invited. Mycroft asked me to come, but I already had plans to go out with some old Hendon mates."

"Pity you couldn't make it. It was lots of fun," Liya said with a wink. Sherrinford rolled his eyes. His idea of fun and his wife's were two completely different things.

"And by fun she means matchmaking," her husband drolled from the doorway, having still not made it fully into the room.

"Matchmaking?" Greg asked, confused.

"Well, clearly Mary and John were with the wrong people. John needed Sherlock for many reasons, including that ridiculous desire for danger and adventure. Mary needed someone to sit at home and have long discussions about books and telly shows. So I hooked her up with Sherlock's friend Victor. Positively charming young man. Well…mostly. He did put it wrong-footed with John when they met, but they're over that now."

Greg cut her off when she stopped for breath. "Enough! The fact of the matter is that you don't know John nearly as well you know Sherlock, yes?"

"Yes. Good. As long as he gives his 'word' that Sherlock will stay clear of this case, I can bring him on as a medical consultant."

"And of course if Lockie were to just happen to find the file and told his flatmate who was the culprit was," Sherrinford said, "and John told you, there is no way that anyone could say that Lockie unduly influenced the evidence."

"Exactly. Wait…Lockie?" Greg blinked bewildered.  "Lockie as in Sherlock? You call him Lockie?" And then he just started to laugh.

"He doesn't like it much. My likes to tease him about it, but never around others lest Lockie call him _his_ nickname."

"'My?' Mycroft?"

"See, you are clever, Detective Inspector," Liya told him.

"Oh, I know that. I just don't believe that Sherlock said that I was. Am. Whatever."

They laughed.

"Well, Ms Mason, if you give your statement to my sergeant. We'll get back to you."

"Thank you, Detective Inspector," Liya said, sliding off his desk. She turned and shook his hand.

"My pleasure." He waited until she got to the door to add, "Oh and I can't be your model until the case is over with as well."

She screeched and stomped her foot. Sherrinford laughed as he watched his wife stalk toward Sally Donavon's desk.

"You know," he said turning back to Greg, "I think you are the only person in years besides myself to have out-foxed the slyest vixen I know."

Greg just smiled.

"I'll be seeing you around, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

And Greg was left with the feeling that he had fallen down the rabbit hole. He shook his head. _I fell into the hole years ago when I met a drug addict named Sherlock Holmes. I just met the Mad Hatter and March Hare is all._ He laughed. _What did that make Sherlock and Mycroft then? The Cheshire cat and the caterpillar respectively._ He then wondered about John and where he fit in the metaphor and decided he should stop while he was ahead. He had work to do, after all.  
***

It turned out to be only a two for Sherlock on the excitement scale. He looked at the file John had "accidentally" left on the coffee table when he went up to bed.

"It was the intern," Sherlock told Greg when he came to pick up the file. "He was smuggling drugs in some of her lesser works. She found out and confronted him. Then it was wham! lights out for Hannah Jensen. Dull!"

Sherlock huffed and threw himself on the couch in a snit. John just chuckled.

"And I think that's all you're going to get, Greg. Do you need me for anything else? Or us rather?"

"Nope. Now we know the direction to go in, we should wrap it up in no time at all."

"Good," John said with a smile, and then he went to sit on the couch at Sherlock's feet. As Greg turned to leave he saw John start to massage the curly-haired detective's soles and Sherlock's body shuddered as it released the tension.

Liya was right, they did make a good couple. Ever since he divorced Emily, he hadn't gotten around to dating much and envied Sherlock and John their deep, abiding love. He wished for something like that. For _someone_ like that. He sighed.

As he got to the street he pulled out his mobile phone and dialed. "Hey, we're just wrapping up the case, when did you want me to come to your studio?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muse went into overdrive and got a chapter done for this and for the Great Desolation. So yay!
> 
> Thanks ever be to my beta, old ping hai.

Greg wasn't sure what to expect when he showed up at her studio in Soho, but it wasn't this. It was a small space with concrete walls. All round were large white sheets, splattered with paint. Canvases, some blank, ready to be transformed, others in various states of completion. Sitting in the middle of all this chaos was Liya. 

She had her hair pulled back in a messy do and what seemed like a half a dozen different brushes stuck in it. She wore old, beat-up jeans and a flannel shirt; over the top of that was a large apron. The whole ensemble was speckled head to toe with paint. 

Greg gulped, suddenly nervous. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. Maybe he should just tell Emily that he met the great Liya Mason. That would be enough of a revenge. He didn't need to do this. Yes, he'd just leave and that would be that. But as he was backing up he knocked over a spare easel, making a large clatter. 

Liya turned around. Seeing who it was she jumped up. "Greg! It's so good to see you! I'm so glad you agreed to this. I think you'll make a _fantastic_ Cromwell. Come. Come inside."

Greg blushed and took a few tentative steps toward her. She rushed over to him and grabbed his arm. She dragged him over to the canvas she had set up, which was massive. Greg figured it was at least five feet across. 

"Okay, um…well. I suppose before we get too far into this, I should find out what exactly this painting is going to be. I mean, I know it's got Cromwell and Charles I, but I want to make sure the subject matter is something I'll be comfortable with," Greg muttered as he looked at the floor, feeling like a bashful school boy.

"Oh!" Liya hit her forehead with the palm of her hand. "Oh my god! I'm sorry! I should have realized. Of course you need to know that. I just get so caught up that I forget that others might feel uncomfortable."

Greg relaxed a little, some of the tension bleeding from his frame. He nodded. "Yeah."

"It's going to be the scene when Cromwell comes to the Tower of London to inform the former king of his impending death. And while in the finished painting Charles will be naked with but the barest sheet covering him, the model will have pants on under the sheet. It's more for the comfort of the model, to be honest. He's a bit shy."

"Will he be here today?" Greg asked, wondering who the mysterious other model was. 

"Oh no. He's got to work. Besides, I'm going to sketch the two of you separately to get the positions the way I want them. Then when it's time to paint, I'll bring the two of you together."

He looked at her confused. 

Liya sighed and rolled her eyes. "You are both busy men with unpredictable schedules; this way I can do the work and not have to worry about when I can get the two of you together for a while."

Greg blushed. "Well, I've got about six weeks of time off available to me, so if you need me to, I can take a week or so off. You just need to tell me beforehand so I can request it." _What are you thinking?_ his brain cried out. To be honest, he wasn't even sure himself, but there was some part of him that really want to commit to this. And not just to get back at his ex-wife either. Liya just seemed so passionate about this painting that it was contagious. 

Her jaw dropped and she stared at him in shock. "You mean that?" The wheels in her head were whirling out of control with possibilities. Oh, the possibilities. 

He shrugged. "If you think it'll help…" he trailed off.

Suddenly he was being hugged by the short red-head. "Thank you! Thank you! So much, it means a lot to me." Greg awkwardly patted her back, unsure what to do. After all she was married and he was single. 

"That bitch must have dumber than a box of rocks to let a charmer like you get away," Liya told him as pulled away from the hug. 

"She claimed it was the job."

Liya rolled her eyes. "Git. Well, I think what you and Sherlock do is fantastic."

"Thank you. I think so, too."

"All right, let's get started."

She spent the better part of an hour trying to get Greg into the position she wanted and then another hour sketching out Greg's basic form. Silence reigned in the studio as she worked. The quiet was broken by his phone shrilling loudly. 

"Shite! Can I get that?" he asked, not daring to move unless she said. 

Liya merely waved her hand. That was all Greg needed as he dived for the device. 

"Hello?" As he listened to the person on the other end his shoulders began to slump. "Can't this wait? I'm busy, Emily."

The red-head merely watched, not even raising her eyebrow askance. 

"We've been over this. Dozens of times. You can't get blood from a stone." 

"No. Oh, hell no. You can fuck off. You cheated on me, remember? If your current boy toy can't keep you in the 'lifestyle' then you should have been faithful. I was _good_ to you."

There was a long pause and Greg's face grew darker. 

"Oh that's rich coming from you and you know it. So, you're spying on me. She's Sherlock's sister-in-law, if you must know."

He ran his fingers through his hair. "No. It's not like that. I'm doing her a favor."

Greg's face became a veritable thunder cloud.

"Fuck off." He pressed the button as hard as he could. He looked up at the woman who had witnessed the whole thing. "It was more satisfying when you could slam the receiver down."

Liya laughed. "That's certainly true."

Greg looked down at his feet, "I'm just sorry you had to hear that."

She patted him on the shoulder, "Come on. Let's go get some lunch. And maybe a stiff drink or three."

The detective gave a weak laugh. He grabbed their coats as she washed up. There was nothing she could about the paint in her hair, but she managed to get the worst of it on her hands and face. 

He helped into her coat first; it was an old trench coat that made his like decent in comparison. He then put on his. As they walked out to the street he asked,

"So what's with the old coat? I thought the Liya Mason would have something a lot nicer."

She laughed. "I use to bring my posh coats until I ruined one too many with paint or thinner."

"Gotcha," he said with a grimace. He didn't want to think about how much she had spent on coats before she wised up. Probably more than he made in a year or two.

They reached a small cafe and went inside. They ordered and talked while they waited. 

"So, what did the bitch want then?" Liya asked.

"The usual. More money. Accusing me of cheating on her. Which, considering we haven't been married in three years is kinda impossible. I think she just doesn't want to see me happy with anyone else."

"So, you're straight then?" And if he was, there went her plans out the window in a hurry. Though Sherlock had managed to bend John, so anything is possible. 

"Not exactly…" he trailed off, his ears tinging pink. 

"Oh?" Liya was more than a little curious now.

"Before I met Emily I would have said I was gay. She liked to tell people she managed to make me switch teams. Which really should have been my first clue she wasn't good for me."

"I'll say. So, you're bi, then?"

"Kinda. I still appreciate a good female form," he nodded her direction and she blushed, "But men turn me on." _Especially men in tight three-piece suits_ , his mind supplied helpfully. 

"Thank you for the compliment. It's always nice to hear I can still turn heads, even at my age."

"You're welcome. If you weren't married, I think I could have made a decent go of it," he told her with a wink. 

She laughed, "Good to know. How long have you known Sherlock?" she asked changing the topic.

Greg raised a questioning eyebrow at the sudden shift. 

"Well, I want to get to know any man who can tolerate dear Lockie for more than five minutes."

This time the detective laughed. "I'm not sure I could be counted as one of them." She smiled. "Let's see, five years before John came along, two years before 'The Fall' and about a year since he's been back? So about ten years."

"Ten years and you haven't killed him yet? You must have the patience of a saint."

"Not quite. That's John. But Sherlock's a good guy. When I met him, he really didn't have anyone who still gave a damn. You'll pardon me for saying so, but where were his older brothers when Sherlock hit rock bottom? Mycroft told me at my first kidnapping that he had given up on Sherlock by this point, which as I much as I like the guy is still a pretty shitty thing to do. Where was Sherrinford?"

Liya sighed. "Don't judge my husband too harshly, detective. Despite still being heir, he had been cut off from his family for quite some time. He knew that Mycroft had gone into politics but he didn't know anything about Sherlock. It's not as though you can google drug addicts," she spat out. She rubbed her chin.

"Sorry, that was out of line. It's just hard. They have built up so many walls between them that I get frustrated."

Greg nodded. "Yeah. At least with Sherlock, John's broken down quite a few. Mycroft, it appears, is the only Holmes brother still with the walls."

"Which is sad, really. When I first met him, he had the biggest heart of anyone I had ever had the pleasure of meeting. But a few bad relationships, his job, and seeing his family drift apart and it slowly closed off."

"I think it's still in there," Greg commented.

"I think so, too. He just needs someone who can thaw our iceman."

"That would be one very lucky girl," the silver-haired detective murmured. 

"Guy."

He looked up, stunned. "Mycroft is gay?"

"Oh yes. Didn't you know?" Liya purred. This was getting easier by the minute. Greg shook his head. She leaned back as the thought simmered in the detective's mind. 

He decided it was time to change tracks and fast. "So, who's your King Charles, then?"

"You'll see soon enough," the red-headed artist told him. "He's really shy, so it took a lot of convincing to get him to agree to this. Though, I must admit, I didn't have anyone in mind when I asked you to be my Cromwell." _Well, not quite…._

"Huh. Okay."

They finished their meals and parted at the entrance to the cafe. Greg left to contemplate his new view of Mycroft and Liya was off to scheme.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, the picture they have of Cromwell on Wikipedia looks a lot like Rupert Graves.
> 
> And have you figured out who Charles I is yet?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as ever to my beta old ping hai, who makes sure that people can understand my special form of gibberish. Seriously, I can't count how many times she's had me fix things so that it made sense to someone other than me. 
> 
> I'm in the middle of gigantic move cross country, but I hope to get one more chapter of this out before the big day.

Mycroft ran his hands over his face. He was used to dealing with Sherlock and John's brand of aggravation, but his sister-in-law was making his life even more complicated. Liya was a trouble magnet and she was causing him all sorts. She was even more of a handful than the Baker Street Boys; as his surveillance team called his brother and his partner. 

The politician wasn't ashamed to admit that he was actively monitoring those two; despite what they thought it was strictly audio, no video. Especially not in their flat. Though he was known to hijack the CVTV feeds near their flat on occasion. Considering the recent change in Sherlock and John's relationship he'd remove the audio once it became intimate. Although in the month since they became a couple it hadn't happened, yet, but Mycroft had high hopes it would change any day now.

Apparently, despite Sherlock's assurances to the contrary at the Palace, the detective was in fact alarmed by sex. Especially sex with a certain army doctor, who in his military days was known as Three-Continents Watson. But John was being especially patient, as far as the politician could gather.

Mycroft was wandering off the track. He was supposed to be concentrating on his sister-in-law. He kept an eye on the Detective Inspector, for…personal reasons. And was not happy to see him enter and leave Liya's studio flat in Soho. On a regular basis. 

He assumed it had something to with her art, but still the thought of them as friends frightened Mycroft. She had, after all, been successful in matching Sherlock and John. What if she matched him to one of her artist friends, or worse, one of Sherrinford's actor friends? The middle Holmes brother wanted what his brothers had acquired. Someone to come home to. He worked hard day in and day out and hated the sense of dread he felt every time he left the office knowing he'd be facing an empty flat.  

Mycroft wasn't sure how long he drifted off in his thoughts, but he was startled out of his reverie by a call to his private line.

"Hello?"

"Hello, brother dear," Sherlock replied.

"What do you want this time?" the poor politician groaned. 

"I need you down here at once."

"Oh? And what pray tell would I want to do that for?" He refused to cater to his brother's whims today. He was far too tired. 

"You remember the MOD man you wanted us to find?"

"I'm very unlikely to forget; it was only this morning after all. As I recall you said the case far too dull."

"Yes, well. I take it back," Sherlock said.

"And why's that?" Mycroft was starting to form a picture in his head of what was going on and he could tell it wasn't going to be good. 

"Lestrade rang not long after you left with this juicy closed-door murder. I'm sure you can figure out the rest."

Oh, god. The older man closed his eyes.

"Text my PA the address."

Just as he was about to ring off Sherlock interjected, "Oh and Mycroft?"

"What now?"

"Wear that satin blue tie I know you keep in your top desk drawer for tea with the Queen. It goes great with the pale grey suit you're wearing."

The politician looked down in shock, "How did you know I was wearing the grey one today?"

He could almost hear the eye roll. "It's Tuesday, of course you're wearing it," Sherlock drolled. 

Mycroft hadn't thought about it, really, but looking back, his brother had been right. Every Tuesday he wore the suit. It was something he would have to think on at a later date. He hit end on his phone only to realize Sherlock had already ended the call. 

The older man looked at his current tie, a pale green paisley number which was his favorite and wondered what was wrong with it. He thought it went rather well with his suit and made up his mind not to do what his brother said. So, it came as quite the surprise when he looked down to answer a message from a frantic minister and saw that he had changed the tie to the blue one. 

Outside the building where the crime had occurred was one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. 

"Hello, Mycroft," the silver-haired man greeted, sticking out his hand. 

The politician shook it, "Gregory." 

"You look nice today," Greg said. "That tie really brings out the color in your eyes."  
It had been several years since anyone had gotten the younger man to blush, and yet with a simple, honest compliment, the man in front of him did so with ease.

"Thank you," he indicated for the detective to lead the way, "Has Sherlock informed you as to why I'm here?"

They began to make their way to the crime scene. "He has, yes. And with my workload being as it is, I have to admit feeling relieved. Between you and your brother, I'm sure it'll be wrapped up in time for tea."

Again Mycroft blushed. "Thank you, Gregory." Greg flashed him his brightest smile. 

The politician spotted his brother and made his excuses to the detective to speak with Sherlock. Greg nodded and answered his phone as it rang just as the middle Holmes brother walked off. 

"Hello, brother dear," Sherlock drolled. He looked over his brother and smirked. He noticed the tie and chose not to mention it. Instead he said, rocking back on his heels, "Did you know that whenever you see Lestrade, there is a 67.54% chance it's a Tuesday?"

Whatever snarky comment he was going to make died on Mycroft's lips. He sputtered as he fought to get his brain to start up again. So, he was grateful when John came up and said hello.

"Good afternoon, John," Mycroft replied. 

John looked around the politician and smiled, "Hey, Greg." Mycroft took a deep breath, counted to ten and turned around to see the silver-haired man coming up to them. 

"Hey, John," the detective said as he stopped in front of them. "That was Superintendent Gregson. Apparently, they are handing over the whole case to Mycroft. But leaving me on as police liaison, working directly with him." 

"Well then, Detective Inspector. If you'll come with me, we'll get this all sorted." Greg nodded and the pair of them wandered off, Greg bringing Mycroft up to speed and Mycroft spouting off deductions. 

Once they were out of ear-shot Sherlock made a call.

"Tobias? Yes. Thank you. I'll consider us even. Yes. Good-bye, Superintendent."

He was placing the phone in his pocket when he spotted an irate Sally Donavon coming his direction, with Anderson in tow.

"Oi! Freak!" Sherlock rolled his eyes at her opening salvo. 

"Hello, Sally."

She scowled and jerked her head in the direction of his brother and her boss. "So, who's that then?"

"As ever, sergeant, you see but you do not observe."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she huffed. 

"Merely that if you had paid attention at all, you would recognize him from his previous appearances at crime scenes. As to who he is, he is the most dangerous man you'll ever meet, the British government, and my brother."

"Oh, god. There are two of you?" she complained. "What's he doing here, then? Come to check up on baby brother, then?"

"No. Our victim is Henry Wallace Gaysford, MOD. And I say ours, but he's no longer your problem. My brother has come to take over your case."

"He's come to do more than that, judging by the way he was leering at _my_ boss." Sally retorted.

John laughed. "He wasn't leering." He turned to Sherlock, "Could you imagine? Mycroft? Leering?"

"Indeed. My brother would never do something so base."

At this comment Sally's patience reached its breaking point. "Whatever. You just keep him away from Lestrade, you hear me?" She stormed off leaving Anderson behind. 

"Well, that'll be difficult considering they'll be working together on the case," Sherlock shouted after her.

John and Sherlock chuckled, but Anderson had yet to follow her.

"Um…well. I'd just like to say a few things, then I'll be out of your hair."

The two other men shared a look that clearly said 'Okay…where is this going?'

"Right. Firstly, I'd like to apologize for my role in the incident with Moriarty. I was jealous and it clouded my judgement."

The dark-haired detective blinked in surprise. "Thank you."

"Secondly, I wanted to congratulate you on your recent relationship change. It can't be easy for the two of you, even in this day and age. Oh, and of course, winning the pool helped."

"The pool?" John asked.

"The betting pool on when you two would get together. I was the closest, being only a few days off."

"Right…" John trailed off, clearly uncomfortable with the thought of people betting on his relationships.

"Anyway," Anderson pressed on. "And lastly, while I may not be as clever as the Sherlock Holmes, I'm not stupid. If your brother, Mycroft you said?" John nodded.

"Right. If Mycroft was leering at Lestrade, then Lestrade was ogling right back. Now, I don't know your brother very well, but Lestrade is stubborn to a fault. Makes him a good cop. And if this Mycroft is as stubborn he is, neither one is going to make the first move. Am I right?"

John blinked and had the strangest feeling, like he had stepped into an episode of the _Twilight Zone_. 

"Yes," Sherlock muttered. "For once in your life, you're right."

"Thanks for that. Anyway, the reason I'm bringing it up, is I know you guys are working to get them together and I want to help. After the whole blow up with Emily, he needs someone in his life. She had the gall to tell him it was his fault. Whether it was his fault for the affair or his fault she got caught, is anybody's guess."

Sherlock rocked back on his heels. "Knowing what I do of the woman, I'm willing to bet on the latter."

Anderson smirked. "Sounds about right. The point is, if you think Lestrade is good enough for your brother and vice versa, then I want in. I'll do whatever you want."

For a second there both the forensic technician and the good doctor thought Sherlock was going to say something horrifically rude, but the curly-haired detective surprised them both.

"Well, considering, Sgt. Donavon's reaction just now, if when asked, would you get her out of the way?"

Anderson rubbed his chin that still sported the beard he grew while Sherlock was away, only now it was neatly trimmed. "I think I can do that. Haven't been together for awhile, but we're still on relatively good terms. I'm sure I could come up with something."

"Thank you again." Sherlock turned to leave and then turned back. "By the way, Anderson. I like the beard. It looks good on you. Makes your face not so…narrow." John hadn't been this shocked since that one Christmas when Sherlock apologized to Molly. 

Anderson laughed at the strange almost-compliment. "Thanks." He stuck out his hand and Sherlock took it, pumping once before they went their separate ways, John following behind his partner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Anderson is based on the mini-episode "Many Happy Returns" with the beard he's sporting in the documentary they showed on PBS last Sunday. It's similar to the picture they have on his IMDb page. And he does look so much better with it. 
> 
> And because I haven't seen the new new season yet, his attitude is based on speculation on my part. But it won't be changed if Anderson turns out to be the same ass he was before. This story was always going to be AU. It just becomes more so once I watch the new episodes. 
> 
> I still hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god! I am soooo sorry this took so long. First I was packing to move cross country and then my laptop was in a storage container for a week as our stuff was moved from Utah to Pennsylvania and then it took a week to dig it out of said storage container once it got to us (we flew). And then trying to get everything unpacked and then finding time to write and then finding time to type it up (it's easier to write in a notebook first to get it out of my head). And then I injured my wrist which made the typing harder. Of course all this on top of taking care of an eight month old highly active little boy.
> 
> For those following my other story "The Great Desolation" as well, it is in the process of being typed up. As it became something of a behemoth, it is taking me long to get it up and sent off to my lovely beta old ping hai (who helped out with this chapter and I love and adore). But be rest assured, it will be up.

Mycroft stood in the middle of Liya’s studio with his arms crossed over his chest. “I am _not_ undressing,” he huffed, glaring at her.

Liya rolled her eyes. “I don’t want you _naked_ , My. I just want you down to your skivvies.”

His disdain was evident in every line of his body. “I don't see how that is an improvement, Liya!” he protested.

“The point of the painting is for you to _look_ naked. Not to actually _be_ naked. This is the scene of Cromwell coming to the deposed king to tell him he is to be executed for treason,” she explained for what felt like the hundredth time.

“I understand what the scene is! What I don’t understand is why Charles has to be naked!” Mycroft was starting to border on hysteria.

Liya gave one long-suffering sigh. “The nudity symbolizes that the king literally has nothing left. That Cromwell has won and Charles is going to die.”

“Fine.”

The red-headed woman blinked. “ _Fine_?” She fully expected the politician to put up more of fight on this.

“Yes,” he said, his voice was cold and dripped condescension. “But I refuse to go further than the pants and I will remain covered at all times.”

She rushed to reassure him. “Of course, My. I wouldn’t have any other way.” The relief on her brother-in-law’s face was palpable. “I’m really grateful you agreed to this. It will look amazing and everyone will love it, I promise.”

The older man sighed. “I _didn’t_ agree to this. You blackmailed me.”

Liya grinned. Of course she blackmailed him. He wouldn’t have agreed otherwise. She wasn’t really going to tell Greg of Mycroft’s more than platonic feelings for him. It would go against her plans for the two, but the politician needn’t know that.

He grabbed the sheet she had laid out for him and stalked off toward the en suite bathroom to disrobe. The artist chuckled. She couldn’t wait until her Charles I met her Oliver Cromwell. The expressions on their faces would be priceless. Her chuckle turned into maniacal laughter and she rubbed her hands together evilly.

Her laughter turned to honest amusement when Mycroft came out. He had wrapped the sheet around himself like a toga and carried the remainder over his arm to avoid tripping on it. All he needed was the laurel wreath to complete the look of a Roman emperor.

“Wrong era you know,” she told him as he shuffled back into the main part of the studio. He had his nose in the air, clutching his neatly folded clothes to his chest, his mobile phone, wallet, and keys placed on top, looking affronted at the fact that she dared to laugh at him. Once he reached her, she tugged on the sheet and unraveled him so she could put the sheet around him the way she wanted. He stood there in his grey boxer briefs that matched the color of his suit exactly.

As she rearranged him on the floor she asked, “When was the last time you did something for you, just because you wanted to? Something other than that stuffy old club of yours, something _fun_.”

Mycroft sighed. It appeared he was going to get the Spanish Inquisition with this sitting. “When do I have the _time_? When I’m not bailing Sherlock out of some scrape or another, I’m bailing out some politician or diplomat out some scandal or another. And if I’m not doing that, I’m putting out political fires, at home or abroad. The Diogenes is the only place I can go that calms me.” He looked away bitterly. “Besides, my brothers have enough _fun_ to cover what I don’t have time for.”

Liya’s eyes stung with unshed tears and her heart ached. No one should have to live like that. “Don’t you go out with friends? People from the office after work?” She wasn’t sure exactly what he did, but she knew he worked out of an office on the Thames.

Mycroft shrugged. “They aren’t fond of me after the incident with Moriarty and Sherlock.”

Liya nodded. She could understand that. Though, in their case it was far more likely that they were upset for something other than merely being left out of the loop.

“I got all the credit for orchestrating the takedown of Moriarty’s network. Something that massive? They didn’t appreciate not being brought in for their share of the glory.”

Yep, and there it was. Glory hounds, the lot of them. “What about Henry? Surely he wasn’t one of those types?”

“From the palace?” Mycroft asked and when she nodded, he shrugged. “Well…apparently the crown didn’t like the fact I appropriated the funds clandestinely.”

“Mycroft! You didn’t!”

“I did and I would do it again in a heartbeat.” Liya sighed. Of course he would; anything to protect Sherlock. She had just gotten him where she wanted him when his phone beeped. He reached out to his pile of clothes that was nearby and grabbed it without even asking if it was okay to move. She sighed in frustration. Mycroft, on the other hand, was completely oblivious and was happily typing back to the person who had texted him.

“Mycroft Edmund Holmes!” He looked up guiltily. “Since when do you _text_? I thought you prefer to call,” she teased. When he blushed, the realization hit her. “Oh.” Her grin threatened to split her face. “ _Oh_.”

The phone beeped again and the older man typed back his response. “It’s Greg, isn’t it?”

“He’s asking me for out for drinks later,” Mycroft acknowledged.

“Well, that’s uncanny,” she said, surprised. “Here I was asking why you don’t go out to drinks with mates, and Greg up and texts you to do that very thing out of the blue.”

The politician shrugged. “He does that from time to time. I’ll be having a rough day and he’ll text me some funny thing Sherlock or John has done. Or a send a small puzzle for me to figure out.” The phone beeped again and Mycroft wondered if he should wait to respond to Greg until after he had left the studio. He shook his head. His sister-in-law was going to tease him no matter what he did, so he sent a message back and was pleased with the near-instant response.

Liya blinked and then shook her head. She didn’t have time to contemplate Mycroft and Greg’s relationship thingy or whatever it was, she had a painting to complete. And she couldn’t do that watching the now-blushing politician text his crush. Christ, what was this -- high school? “Can we get back to the task at hand, please?”

He looked around as if waking up from a daze. “Oh, yes, of course.” It took her longer than she would have liked, getting the politician back to the way she had him before the weird case of the texting Mycroft Holmes, the man who prefers to call.

She took pictures so she could get him back in that position when he returned for more sittings and then sat down to begin her sketching. They continued thus until he coughed discreetly. She looked up at the clock and then back at him. “Yes. Fine. You’re excused.”

He jumped up and ran, gathering up his things to get changed. When he emerged, he was immaculately dressed from head to toe.

“No, no. This won’t do!” Liya exclaimed. “You’re going out for drinks with Greg, not tea with the Queen. Come here.”

Mycroft walked over to her to be made over. First, she took off his jacket. “It’s a warm night, you won’t need it. Especially not indoors.” Next, she rolled up his sleeves, then loosened his tie and undid the top button. “Makes you look more casual.” She stepped back to look at the result. “There, from stuffy to artfully disheveled. Now throw your jacket over your shoulder and the look is complete.”

Mycroft did as she asked and then went back into the bathroom to see the result. He blinked at the man in the mirror, unable to recognize himself in the good-looking man standing there. He came out and bade the red-headed artist good-bye.

She waved and grinned. Once he was gone, she wondered why they were so blind as to not see the devotion that they had for each other. Clearly, all one of them needed to do was to grab the other by the lapels and snog the living daylights out of him. But then that would ruin her fun.

***

Mycroft walked into the quiet club and scanned the room for the detective inspector. It wasn’t one of those noisy, music thumping, bodies jumping type of places, though nor was it like his Diogenes either. It was a nice upscale place, where one would take someone on a first date.

_Could Greg… no, of course no_ t. Mycroft dismissed the thought. His eyes lit upon the policeman and he smiled his greeting. Greg stood up quickly, almost knocking over his drink. His mind had stuttered to a stop at the sight of a casual Mycroft Holmes walking his way.

"Wow, you look…" his brain couldn't come up with a word that described how good the politician looked.

"Does it look okay? My sister-in-law thought this was more appropriate for drinks with mates. I can change it if you'd prefer."

"Oh, god no! Really, it's good. Really good." The younger man looked down at his clothes skeptically. Yes, he thought he looked good, but he had known that his idea of style went more toward bespoke three-piece suits and fob watches. He hadn't worn anything that one would call casual in years.

"Blue tie/grey suit good or it's just fine?"

Greg laughed. "Better than the blue tie and dove grey suit, I assure you."

The detective indicated he should sit and sat down himself. Not that Greg was a slouch in the dress department tonight. He was in a nice black suit with his white shirt's top two buttons undone. It brought out the darker tones in his skin, making him appear tan.

"Thank you for inviting me, Gregory, things were getting a bit uncomfortable. I was getting the inquisition from my sister-in-law. Liya Mason? Have you heard of her?" Mycroft was good at sounding sincere when he wasn't.

"You know I have. You have me under surveillance after all."

"I can neither confirm nor deny that."

That startled a laugh out of Greg and soon Mycroft was joining in.

They talked about movies. Greg preferred buddy comedies like the Cornetto trilogy with Simon Pegg and Nick Frost, while Mycroft liked period dramas like "The King's Speech" and "Apollo 13".

They both liked fantasy novels, loving the Harry Potter series together but for different reasons as evident in the author they picked up in void of "The Deathly Hallows."

"Percy Jackson? A man of your age? Really, Gregory," Mycroft mock chided.

"Yeah well. They're good stories, regardless of the age group they're aimed at. Though I've never heard of Brandon Sanderson, so there's that."

"You should. Though, I would start with a couple of his novellas. "Legion", I think you'll enjoy."

"Huh. I'll look into it."

They were enjoying the night, the conversation and each other when they were interrupted by two women who were half their age.

"Hey, want to join us for a couple of drinks?" the one said to Mycroft.

"I told you, you looked good," Greg teased.

"I'm sorry, ladies. You're not my type."

"Oh, come on," the other whined.

"I prefer men," Mycroft insisted. They pouted and then turned to his companion.

"How about you?" Greg laughed.

"No thanks. I'll take no one's seconds. Besides, I'm with him." Their eyes went wide. "I mean, I'm not _with_ him. I meant I'm gay. Like he is." Greg blushed. That couldn't have gone worse.

While both men had known the other's status, it was the first time they had come out and told the other. The women flounced off in a huff, muttering about them being too old anyway.

Greg shook his head and chuckled.

Mycroft cocked his head to the side. "Not bi?" That was what he had assumed, having the all the information on hand. He knew of Greg's boyfriends at university, but the man was married to a woman for twenty-five years.

"Ah. No. She was an exception. One I really shouldn't have made. But then, it was it a different time. I doubt I would have gotten to where I am if I had been open about it."

"Are you not worried about it now?"

"No. The only positions that are higher than mine are in administration and you'll pardon me, but you can keep them."

Mycroft laughed. "I understand; administration is not for everyone."

They talked until his female PA, who this week was calling herself Eris, came and got him.

"Good night, Gregory. I would like to do this again," he said, holding out his hand to the detective.

Greg took it. "Yeah. Definitely."

Once in the car she said, "How was the date, sir?"

"It wasn't a date," he said firmly.

"If you say so, sir." She went back to typing away on her Blackberry with an air of disbelief.

_It wasn't a date_ , he thought fiercely.

_Was it?_


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, you have no idea how sorry I am. My internet was out for a week and a half. So, if you are looking for news of my other story The Great Desolation, I am working on it. I have three chapter on the pipe line. It just requires time that my beta (the lovely and amazing old ping hai) and I have at the same time, which since my internet has been on (yesterday), it hasn't been much. We barely had time to this small little chapter. 
> 
> Also there is a little cliffhanger-ish... bit.

* * *

 

Greg couldn't wipe the silly grin off his face as he walked into New Scotland Yard. There was a decided spring in his step as he walked past his team. Sally looked up at him shocked, an eyebrow raised in question. He just waved at her cheerfully. 

He let himself into his office and hung up his coat. He put his keys in the top drawer and he spotted a note on top of his case files. It was a nice, creamy-colored parchment, with his name written on top in an elegant hand. He opened it up and his happy mood hit an all-time high. 

**_Dear Gregory,_ **

**_Thank you again for a lovely evening last night. I wish to express my desire to do it again some evening when you are free. I am more likely to be free on Friday evenings or Saturday afternoons._ **   
**_With regards,_ **

**_Mycroft_ **

Greg immediately shot off a text. 

_This Friday at 7? -GL_

Mycroft answered after a few moments. 

_I look forward to it. -M_

The Inspector sat down and smoothed out the note, running his fingers over the soft parchment. Trust Mycroft to send a handwritten thank-you note, Greg thought. It was very much a thing he would do. Even better, Greg was sure that it had been done by Mycroft's own hand and not that of his PA, as was common among important men like the auburn-haired gentleman. 

A bit of his mood slipped as Greg thought about the large gap in their station. Normally Greg wouldn't give a flying rat's arse about that sort of thing, but God was Mycroft exquisite. Everything about him screamed money, education, and bearing. Everything the Inspector wasn't. And yet in spite of everything, Mycroft sought him out time and time again. That had to mean something. Didn't it? 

He wasn't sure how long he sat thinking about it, but suddenly there was a knock on his door. It opened to reveal Sally. She poked her head in. 

"Hey, the freak and his pet are here." 

"We've discussed this, sergeant. Call them by their names. If it wasn't for Sherlock, I'd be dead." 

"So he says. How can you believe that shite?" Sally said, disbelieving. 

"Because, sergeant, he might be an arse, but he's not heartless. God bless John Watson. From day one, he proved the detective wasn't a machine. Go on, tell me he hasn't," Greg pressed.

"Whatever, sir. Anyway, they wish to see you." 

"Show them in." 

Sally rolled her eyes, but did as she was told. Sherlock strolled in like he owned the place, John as always one step behind. 

"Hey," the Inspector said, looking up. "I haven't got any cases for ya." 

Sherlock's grin was feral. "I'm not here about a case Detective Inspector. I'm here about your date with my brother." The detective's face betrayed nothing of his thoughts. 

"Now, see here. It was just drinks between friends," Greg protested. 

"Really? And how much effort did you put into getting dressed for this 'drinks between friends'?" 

Greg blushed. "All right, a bit. But in my defense, your brother wears bespoke suits. A little effort is kinda required." 

Sherlock cocked his head to side. "I suppose I'll give you that one. However, my next question, how was my brother dressed?" 

"Uh. Well. He made an effort to dress down. He had to have help, the poor man." 

"So, you still don't think it was a date?" 

"Well, I didn't set out to go on a date…" Greg hedged. 

"You know me to be socially inept and my brother is as much so. He is just better at imitating and concealing than I am. So, given that, how would I have viewed last night's encounter?" 

John spoke up for first time, "He would have thought it was a date. And then not. He wouldn't be sure. It would have been gone back and forth until it spiraled out of control." 

"Christ!" Greg swore. 

"I would make your intentions clear," Sherlock told him. 

"It wasn't a date. But I don't want to say it's not and have him think I'm not interested, because I am." 

Sherlock crowed in delight in his head, to have at least one of them admit it out loud. "Then I suggest keeping it as casual as you can when dealing with my brother. And then when you get your head out of your arse and actually ask him out, make it clear it's a date. Say the word." 

And then Sherlock turned on his heel and strode out of the office, leaving behind a distraught Inspector and a chuckling doctor. 

"God, John. What I am going to do? I mean, I like Mycroft. He is an amazing person, but I don't want to start this wrong footed." 

"Despite what Sherlock thinks, Mycroft is better at the personal relationships than he is. That said, however, you are probably telegraphing your interest," John said. Greg looked stricken and the doctor chuckled. "Remember, you're dealing with a Holmes." Greg nodded. 

"So, is he not interested?" 

John shook his head. "I can't say, but Greg, you are new to him. He's used to dealing with diplomats, foreign dignitaries, and heads of state. You are none of those things." 

"No need to rub it in," he groused. 

"No, no, no. It's a good thing. You're refreshingly honest. But take it slow. You don't want to overwhelm him." 

"How did you snag your Holmes brother?" the Inspector moaned. 

"I had to be pushed in the right direction. I was this close," he held up his finger and thumb close together, "to proposing to Mary. But smarter people than I was realized I was with the wrong person and set me on the right path." 

Greg sighed. That wasn't what he wanted to hear. 

"Look, mate, your situation was always going to be different than mine. I lived with the mad berk for a couple years before we got together. But you are two single men with your own lives. The dance is different. More a waltz to our tango." 

"Speaking of tango..." Greg winked and John blushed. 

"Not yet," he replied. 

"What's the hold up? I thought he'd be chomping at the bit." 

"The way I understand it either it's been a long time, like 'well before we met long time' or he's never done it." 

"Christ, really?" 

"Yep." John popped the 'p'. 

"Good luck, mate." 

"Yeah, see you later." 

*** 

After responding, Mycroft looked at the message Greg sent for a long time. He felt suddenly out of his depth. He tried not to get his hopes up about Friday, but it was getting harder with each passing moment. 

He really wanted things to work out, but how to convince the gorgeous Detective Inspector to pick him out of all the available male population was becoming a problem to rival the Gordian knot. And he was no Alexander the Great. 

He sighed dramatically, he couldn't spend the time he wanted on this problem as there was a country to run and it didn't do so without him. Plus there was another, more pressing problem, he was about to head over to his sister-in-law's studio for his final solo sitting. 

Starting on Monday, he was going to spend a week off with her other model to finish the painting. Mycroft wasn't sure how she managed to convince him to do it. Probably something to do with the fact that if the other man could take time out of his busy schedule, then the politician could as well. That, and she went behind his back and set it up with his PA. At least he had Friday to look forward to. 

Two days later, he got another message from Greg. 

_Supernova- GL_

Moments later his surveillance team sent the same message. It was confirmed. Sherlock and John had finally had sex. It was about time in his opinion. It was time to remove the audio from 221B Baker Street. 

_How long will they be at the crime scene? -M_

_Long enough if you hurry -GL_

_It will be done. From here on we will have to rely on CCTV and their own discretion to keep them safe. -M_

_God help us all -GL_

Their second evening out went better than the first, as no women tried to hit on either of them. Though he did see there were several women and men alike who were eying Greg, trying to decide whether or not they should ask him out. The Inspector, on the other hand, claimed they were looking at the auburn-haired gentleman that was his companion. Mycroft just shook his head. Well, he was appropriately for the situation in his tan slacks and navy blue jumper, but in his mind, Greg looked dashing in his dove grey polo shirt and black sports jacket. 

They left the club with another appointment set up for the following week. It was starting to look like a regular thing.   
Monday came and he woke up with a sense of dread. Today was the day that would start the week-long torment of posing in his underthings in the presence of a complete stranger. His only hope was that the man wouldn't be a total idiot. 

His driver dropped him off in front of the building and he made his way up to Liya's studio. When he opened the door he stopped dead in his tracks. There chatting with the fiery red-head was Gregory Lestrade. 

"Oh, good," she said hopping up to drag him in before he could make his escape. "You're here. Charles I, meet your Cromwell." 

He thought a complete stranger was bad. But this? This was _far_ worse.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I decided that I am putting my other story on hold until I finish this one. Which, by my count (which isn't very good most of the time) is about five or six more chapters. And I have a chapter finished and another almost there. I'm not quitting the other story, I just feel like this one deserves a little one on one time. 
> 
> Thanks to my beta old ping hai for making sure this makes sense. 
> 
> And a fair warning: Greg's thoughts are a bit dirty, but aren't described graphically.

Greg's mind went on an endless loop of, "Oh my god, Mycroft is going to be naked." Over and over until a thought broke through. _Dear god, how am I going to survive the day much less a_ week!

Once his brain had dragged itself out of the gutter, he realized how sneaky Liya had been. If he had known who the other model was, he would have told her to stuff it. Not because he didn't want to spend the week with the man. Oh, no. It was the problem of how the man would be dressed, or rather lacking in dress, that was his worry. Greg had trouble keeping his thoughts aboveboard when they went out, this was going going to be a trial and a half. Sweat began to bead on his temple.

Liya must have sensed his distress as she said, "Oh, don't worry, Greg. Mycroft won't be _completely_ naked. Isn't that right, My?" Mycroft blushed. 

Greg decided that that was actually worse. The illusion of nudity made the imagination run wild. Actual nudity on the one hand removed all speculation. _On the other hand,_ he thought, _at least_ if _I get to see him naked it'll because he_ wants _me to._

Mycroft closed his eyes, counted to ten in his head, and then stepped forward. He held out his hand for Greg to shake it. "It will be an honor to work with you on this painting, Gregory."

The Inspector gulped and then took the other man's hand. "The pleasure is all mine."

Someone cleared their throat and Greg blushed, realizing that he had yet to let go of Mycroft's hand. He blushed and gently dropped it, more reluctant than he cared to admit. 

Mycroft was staring at the silver-haired man in wonder. The handshake stoked the flame of hope in a way he had never dared to before. It had taken wing and Mycroft's heart soared.

Liya's voice shook him out of his reverie. "Go get undressed, My. I'll be placing the lovely Detective Inspector." Mycroft grabbed the red sheet and stalked off, his back stiff. 

She turned to Greg and began pushing him into place. "How much do you want to bet he turns the sheet in a toga?" she asked, a mischievous grin on her face.

"No bet," he replied and let her tug him this way and that. When Mycroft came out, Greg was glad he hadn't taken the bet. The sheet was wrapped around the tall politician like a toga.

Liya made a grab at the sheet as she had done before, but this time Mycroft had a white-knuckled grip on it. She tugged again and he blushed a deep crimson. 

"Really, My!" she admonished. "You have your pants on, for Christ's sake!" He cast his eyes down.

There was a discreet cough from the other side of the room. The two red-heads turned to Greg.

"I can close my eyes while you get in and out of position. If it'd make you feel more comfortable?" the Inspector suggested.

"You don't' have to--" Liya started.

"You would do that--" Mycroft said at the same time. 

Greg smiled. "Sure. I don't want you to feel awkward or uneasy. If that means I shut my eyes while you are only in your skivvies, then I shut my eyes."

Mycroft breathed out a sigh of relief. "Thank you," he murmured. 

"You're welcome."

Liya rolled her eyes. But that was what she got when she worked with non-professional models. _Eyes on the prize. This isn't about the painting, girlie. This is about getting them together. The painting is a bonus._

Greg's eyes stayed closed throughout the process and he only opened them when she called out she was done. The sight before him was incredible enough. Mycroft was propped up on one elbow and his long legs stretched out from underneath the sheet. His shoulders and forearms were dusted with a smattering of freckles. His torso was slim and taut like a wire. It took all the will-power Greg had not salivate. His eyes drifted close with desire. 

"It's not pretty, I know," Mycroft muttered. Greg's eyes flew open.

"Oh, god," Greg rushed to assure him. "No, Mycroft. Quite the reverse. You look fantastic!"

"Really?" the younger man asked. His eyes drifted over his belly. "You don't think I'm fat?"

Greg shook his head. "Remind me to kill your brother--" Liya's eyes flashed. "Your _younger_ brother," he amended to her satisfaction. 

"I wish I had Sherlock's physique," Mycroft muttered. 

"I prefer this one actually," Greg said. 

All the while the red-headed artist was happily turning the men before her into Charles I and Oliver Cromwell. As long as they didn't move their heads, she didn't care what their mouths did. Though on the last day she would have to ask for silence when she did their faces. 

"I've had to work hard for it, not like Sherlock…" Mycroft was saying. 

"And even _John_ thinks his eating habits are unhealthy. He gets that way because the idiot forgets to eat. Besides I'd say it paid off."

They settled into a silence for a while before Greg spoke up again. "What's your favorite cake?"

"Well, when I indulge, which to say not that often, it's a simple chocolate cake with white frosting and a raspberry filling."

"That sounds fantastic," Greg said. "I would have had you pegged for something fancier. Like a blanc et noir or a Battenburg."

"What on earth is a blanc et noir? I mean, I know it's French for white and black."

"It's a thick cake layered in dark and white chocolate and covered in a milk chocolate ganache." 

"It sounds dreadful!" Mycroft said, thinking about his waistline. "Where would you have seen such a thing?"

"Emily took a French baking class a few years before our divorce." Greg frowned. "It was one of the things they made. Just wish I knew that she was only taking the class to bonk the teacher." 

Both Mycroft and Liya made sympathetic noises. 

Greg gave a quick shrug of his shoulders. "Doesn't remove the fact that it was a pretty epic-tasting cake."

Mycroft chuckled. "If you say so, Gregory."

"All right you two, it's time for a break. That's the only reason why I didn't beat dear Gregory here, for moving!"  
Greg ducked his head and blushed. Mycroft took advantage of his embarrassment and quickly scrambled to pull the sheet around him so he could stand without flashing Greg. 

The DI watched in fascination as Mycroft worked the sheet back into a toga. 

"Where did you learn to do that?" he asked the politician.

Before Mycroft could answer there was a knock on the door.

Liya called from the bathroom, "Greg dear, would you get that? It's lunch, and you _are_ the only one dressed to answer the door."

Greg blushed and moved to the door. The food had been paid for, so all Greg had to do was take the food and tip the delivery boy. He brought bags to where Liya was cleaning off a table and removing a couple of heavy sheets from some of the chairs that she had littered around her studio. 

"Thanks, Greg," she said taking them from him. She passed out sandwiches and bottles of water. 

"So you going to answer my question?" Greg asked once they were settled.

"Hmmm? Oh, yes," Mycroft muttered. "While my brother was off playing pirates with his Irish setter, I imagined I was Caesar."

Greg indicated the sheet with his chin and said, "Wearing the wrong color then, mate."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "You would need purple with a white trim," Greg informed him.

Mycroft was impressed. "Where did you learn that?" 

Greg shrugged. "One of those cases that just stick with you, I guess."

They fell quiet after that. 

Mycroft coughed and broke the silence. "What is your favorite cake then, Gregory?"

Greg broke into a grin, "A triple chocolate cake. Chocolate cake, chocolate frosting, and fudge drizzled on top."

"My heavens!" Mycroft exclaimed. "That sounds as awful as that white and black monstrosity you mentioned earlier."

Greg chuckled. "How about you, Liya?" he asked the painter.

"Oh? Am I here too?" Mycroft and Greg blushed. She waved aside their sputtered apologies. "You're fine. It's nice to see Mycroft come out of his shell a bit." The politician blushed deeper. "I got addicted to this cake when I was in America. It's basically a chocolate cake dyed a bright red with cream cheese frosting."

Mycroft scandalized. "What is with you two? Honestly!" Greg and Liya chuckled.

Again silence fell until it was time to go back to work on the painting. Hours passed in good conversation and laughter. 

As they were pulling on their jackets to go home, Greg put his hand on Mycroft's elbow to stall him. 

"Hey, I feel today was 'pick on Mycroft day,' and want to make it up to you. You want to go out for dinner?"

"You don't have to do that, Gregory," Mycroft said.

"I want to, though."

"Then let me cover it, I know this place that I think you'll really like."

"If it'll make you feel better, sure," Greg said. 

Mycroft pulled out his notebook and wrote the address of the place down and slipped into Greg's chest pocket. "Meet me there at eight."

Greg nodded. "See you then."

"Yes," Mycroft purred. 

***

Mycroft fussed with his tie and smoothed out his waistcoat as he stood waiting for Greg to arrive. It was a bit more upscale than their usual place but Mycroft was aiming to impress the Inspector. And impressed Greg was. 

"It's a good thing you were waiting for me outside," Greg said as they sat down at their table. "Otherwise, they wouldn't have let me in."

"You think too little of yourself, Gregory," Mycroft said as he briefly glanced at the menu.

"No, seriously, Mycroft. Me without a tie and a suit that is clearly off the rack of some department store."

"It's not about where a suit comes from that matters, but the fit," Mycroft let his eyes rake over Greg's form. "And anyone with eyes could see that your suit fits you _very_ well indeed."

Greg blushed. "Especially that one," Mycroft murmured. Greg looked down at his black suit and crisp white shirt without a tie. 

"Well, I always heard black is _supposed_ to be flattering," Greg said, his blush creeping up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. 

Silence descended as their food arrived. Nothing but the sounds of the other patrons filled air for a while as they ate. 

"And what does the great Mycroft Holmes do when he's not saving the free world, protecting his little brother, or doing modeling for pushy sisters-in-law?"  
Mycroft blushed. "When I'm not reading, I play the cello. I find it rather soothing."

Greg tried not make the image of Mycroft playing into a dirty one. He managed, if just barely.

"I bet you play better than Sherlock and his violin," Greg chuckled. 

Mycroft coughed discreetly. "Well, that would always be a given, but my brother plays ill on purpose. Although, I suppose that you are one of the few that have actually heard him play well."

Greg shrugged. "I suppose at the odd party they've held at Baker Street over the years, when John or Mrs. Hudson convinced him to."

"John always has had sway over my brother, from the very beginning," Mycroft said.

Greg smirked. "I'll say. First day, in the middle of some of the best of the Yard, Sherlock made an off comment which stunned everyone to silence. Sherlock turns to John and actually _asks_ 'Not good?' I don't think I had been more shocked."

"Indeed. I don't think my brother had deferred to anyone in all of his adult life." Mycroft coked his head. "Do you play an instrument?"

"Well, sort of," Greg said. "My mum made me learn piano growing up and in uni I learned the guitar. A bit."

"Do you still play either?"

"No really. My flat is barely big enough for let alone anything like a piano. Not even an upright," Greg said with a hint of something like regret. 

Mycroft coughed. "I have one. Not an upright, a proper grand. It's been in the family for years."

"Lucky sod. I'd kill for a proper grand," Greg said, his hands twitching, itching to play. 

"Would you like to try your hand at mine?" Mycroft asked.

"Really?" the grey-haired man asked and when the younger man nodded he said, "I would love to, Mycroft. Thanks."

Greg got a wicked gleam in his eye. "And would I get to see you play your cello?"

Mycroft was stunned. He wished he could decline but he couldn't come up with a reason to deny the man across from him. He had already said he owned one and to say he wasn't very good was a falsehood that would never be believed. "If you wish it."

"Oh, very much so. In fact, let's go now!" Mycroft choked, but Greg was already calling the waiter over their check. Before he knew it, Mycroft had paid their bill and was being shoved into a waiting taxi. He sighed and gave his address to the cabbie. 

He was going back to his house with Gregory and his heart wouldn't stop pounding.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I'm sorry it's taken me so long to put this up. I have all but the final chapter written up, but with a highly active 10 month old and life kicking me in the teeth, it's easier to sit down and write then it is for me to type this up. And then there was the niggling feeling that the story was _too_ fluffy and needed some kind of drama. Which considering its prequel, doesn't make a lot of sense. So, it's going to stay fluffy. Thanks to my beta for holding my hand through my drama of getting this chapter to you. She is a saint and I love her. 
> 
> A minor warning for the boys having dirty thoughts. They are grown men after all. 
> 
> And because I live with a musician I tend super research musical terms. The endpin is the bar at the end of a cello. And the fall is the cover for the keys of a piano.

When they pulled up to the house, Greg let out a low whistle.

"So, this is what happens when you get into politics?" The house wasn't particularly large per se, but it was grand.

"Sort of," Mycroft said, pulling out his keys. "The house, like the piano, has been in the family for generations. My great-great uncle, for whom I was named, owned it. He didn't have any children so passed it to my ancestor. It was used as the town house when they came to London from their estate in Yorkshire," he explained as he led the way through the house. "When my father finally died, may that bastard rot in hell, Sherrinford got the estate in Yorkshire and I got this place."

Greg blinked at the aside comment about Mycroft's father rotting in hell, but all thoughts on that vanished by the following sentence. "What did Sherlock get?"

"Satisfaction in knowing his abuser was dead."

 _Well, damn_ , Greg thought. That explained how Sherlock was, more than Greg would have liked to admit.

Mycroft opened a door and Greg gasped. It was the music room and it was gorgeous. It was decorated in warm browns and reds and it immediately felt like home. There were other instruments in the room, but the main focus was the grand piano. It was a brilliant carved mahogany. Set up next to it as if placed there for the sole purpose of their playing together was the cello. It was a cherry red that blended perfectly with the style of the room.

While it didn't block out the thoughts of Sherlock being abused by their father, it did make Greg want to put it to the side for now and to ask Mycroft about it later.

"This is lovely," he told the politician and then walked up to the piano. "When was this last tuned?" He didn't want to start banging on the keys and have it be out of tune.

"I tune it twice a year, like clockwork," Mycroft said, running his hand down the length of the instrument.

"That's a lot for something that doesn't get played."

"I never said it didn't. Only that I don't."

Greg was a little disappointed that he wouldn't be the first in decades.

"Whenever I have parties here," Mycroft went on to explain. "The piano is central to the entertainment. It's either hire a professional, or any idiot who had a couple weeks of lessons will get on the thing and mutilate whatever song they think they know. There is just something about pianos and guitars that do that to people. And as it is too beautiful an instrument to leave to such a fate, I hire a professional."

Greg laughed. He sat down and ran his hands over the closed fall. "It certainly is lovely."

After a minute or two of Greg staring at it Mycroft coughed. "You know it plays better if you can reach the keys."

Greg huffed out a small chuckle and raised the fall. The ivory was faded but well loved. He watched Mycroft prop open the lid and then hit middle C. The note rang clear and bright in the room.

"Exquisite," he breathed out the word like a sigh. "I am insanely jealous, Mycroft."

"You are welcome to it anytime you wish," Mycroft offered.

"You mean that?" Greg asked in shock. The politician nodded. "Thanks. It'll be good to get back into practice again." He warmed up his fingers and then pressed them to the keys. At the sound of the instrument's beautiful tone, he closed his eyes and began to play. He couldn't have name what piece it was but it impressed his companion.

"You play quite well, Gregory," Mycroft told him as he slipped into the next song. The Piano Man by Billy Joel. The politician grinned.

"Any pianist worth his salt learns this one. It's the first song people ask if you know how to play." The Inspector began to sing.

" _He says 'Son, can you play me a memory_  
 _I'm not really sure how it goes_  
 _But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew complete_  
 _When I wore a younger man's clothes…'_ " Greg trailed off at the la de das and continued sans lyrical accompaniment.

Mycroft smile was soft and fond. "You aren't old," he said, correctly guessing Greg's message.

"I feel it some days. Between these young guys coming in with their new gadgets and ideas and the piling up of cases, it's hard not feel like I should just pack it in." Greg abruptly stopped and stood up. "Enough about me, I want to hear you play."

Mycroft blushed and moved toward the sidebar. He chose an endpin stopper and picked up his bow. He put the stopper in his pocket and ran rosin over the strings. Greg watched this all with fascination.

"What's the disc for?" he asked, nodding in the direction of Mycroft's pocket. Mycroft put the resin down and walked over to where the cello was set up.

"It's to keep the cello from slipping on the floor and to prevent the endpin from poking holes in my hardwood floors," he explained as he got himself situated.

He pulled the bow across the strings and he closed his eyes against the sound. He began to play.

Greg assumed that Mycroft would get more tense as he played, but instead the tension bled out. The younger man swayed in time with the music, he became one with his instrument and Greg couldn't shake the feeling that he was seeing the middle Holmes brother with all his walls down. The Inspector wasn't sure how long he watched the other man, but finally Mycroft stopped.

Mycroft opened his eyes to the sound of applause and blushed deeply as he remembered that Greg was there.

"Exquisite," Greg breathed.

"Thank you. Sherrinford says that the only way Holmes men know how to express their emotions is through their music."

Greg cocked his head to the side, "What does Ford play? Not the double bass, I  hope."

Mycroft chuckled as he put away his bow and stopper. "No. Could you imagine? No, he plays piano like you."

"Makes sense, I guess. Did you chose your instrument?"

And that opened the floodgates for Mycroft to talk about his childhood. They talked for hours. Somewhere in the house a clock struck three. Greg looked at his watch in shock.

"Is that really the time? Christ, there aren't going to be any cabs to be had this time of night and if I don't head home soon, I'll never get any sleep and Liya will kill me if I show up looking like a zombie."

Mycroft battled with the choice between offering to take Greg home or inviting him to spend the night for all of two seconds.

"Why don't you stay?" he said as nonchalantly as he could muster. "I have a spare room you can use."

Greg blinked. "What about a change of clothes?" He was pretty sure that nothing Mycroft had would fit him.

"Two options there; you could either wake up early enough in the morning to go home to shower and change, or you can have my PA pick up something and have it by morning?"

The Inspector thought about it for a moment. "Fine, you can send your PA to get me my things, but no pants. I don't think I could look her in the eye knowing she'd been through my underwear drawer."

Mycroft chuckled. "Fair enough." He shot off a message to his assistant and turned back to Greg. "Here I'll show you to your room." The older man nodded and then followed the politician through the house.

Mycroft opened a door. "Here's your room. The guest bathroom is across the hall and my bedroom is two doors down on the left, if you need anything."

"Pajamas?" Greg asked, smiling.

"Of course." Mycroft went to his room and pulled out a pair of black cotton sleep trousers and matching top. He returned with his acquisition to Greg's room.

"Here, they may be a little big, though," Mycroft blushed.

"Thanks, I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight, Gregory," Mycroft replied.

***

Mycroft lay in his bed looking up at the ceiling, on hand tucked behind his pillow, the other resting on his stomach. Just a couple doors down from him was his…he wasn't sure what he should call Greg. It went far beyond friendship and the term "crush" seemed so juvenile. There was infatuation, but still that lacked depth. He was afraid that there was only one word for how he felt about the silver-haired policeman.

Love. He closed his eyes. His love.

From what Mycroft had seen and deduced, it wasn't as though Greg was disinterested. Quite the opposite, in fact. The problem lay in how deep those feelings went. Was he just interested in a quick shag, light dating, or more? Mycroft himself geared very much toward more. Of course he'd take whatever Greg offered.

The Inspector was the only person that he'd met (outside his family circle) that didn't feel like a goldfish in comparison. He supposed that John would fit into that category as well, but John had been Sherlock's from the first time they made eye contact in that small lab at Saint Bartholomew's Hospital all those years ago. And Greg was special. Mycroft very much wanted to get up and walk those scant steps to where his love lay sleeping and slip into his bed, never to leave.

He fell asleep to the image of Greg wrapped in his arms.

Mycroft awoke to the sounds of banging in the kitchen and the smell of freshly brewed coffee. He hastily put on his bathrobe and made his way to the where the sounds were coming from.

There was the silver-haired man standing in the kitchen making eggs in basket. He had done away with the shirt and the trousers hung loose on his hips. Mycroft gulped and that alerted the Inspector to his presence. He smiled when Greg started when he realized Mycroft was there.

"Morning, My!" He greeted the tall politician warmly. "Coffee's in the pot. I've already had my cup, though I might go for another." Mycroft smiled again as he poured his coffee.

"Holy hell, My, that is _amazing_ coffee."

"Go ahead," Mycroft said nodding to indicate the pot. Greg grinned and poured himself another. He breathed in it before taking a sip.

"I'd kill for coffee like this, to be honest," Greg muttered as he went back to making breakfast.

"I'll have my assistant send you a bag to your office and another to your house on Monday."

"Monday? Oh, you are a cruel, cruel man, Mycroft Holmes. Do you have a middle name?"

Mycroft hid his grin with his cup. "Edmond."

"Jonathan."

"Duly noted."

Greg went and finished the eggs in a basket and after Mycroft pointed out where he kept the plates, served the two of them.

"Thank you," Mycroft said taking a bite of toast.

"It's the least I could do," Greg replied. "I don't think I've slept this well since my early days on the force."

"I'm pleased to hear it."

Greg looked at his watch. "How much time do you think we've got before we go?"

Mycroft sought the clock on the microwave. "Not too much, why?"

"Damn, I was hoping I could get a shower."

Mycroft's mind shuttered to a halt at the thought of Greg naked in his guest bathroom. He imaged the way the water would slide down the wide expanse of the policeman's chest. How his bright silver hair would turn tarnished in the onslaught of the water. He covered his rising blush by taking a sip of his coffee.

"Sorry," Mycroft said regretfully.

"Oh well, I guess I'll go see what that sneaky assistant of yours brought and get dressed."

Mycroft nodded. "I must get dressed as well." And he followed Greg out of the kitchen.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I haven't been around. I sprained my wrist. And so my most awesome beta, old ping hai, offered to type up the chapters for me as well as beta'ing. So, these chapters are because of her. Give her all the cyber cookies and hugs. 
> 
> Also, I do not regret the cliffhanger. Especially since you'll be getting the next chapters pretty quick.

Liya looked up in surprise as Greg and Mycroft walked in together. Her hopes for resolved sexual tension went out the door, however, when she noticed how they kept looking at each other when they thought the other wasn't looking. Like a starving man looking through the windows of a bakery.

They worked like they had the day before, stopping only briefly for lunch before heading back to paint. They laughed, they chatted about last night and other things, they caused Liya's ire by moving. Afterwards, Mycroft plucked up the courage to ask Greg for drinks.

"Oh, my god. I'd love to."

"But?" Mycroft pressed.

"Tuesday is John's and my pub night. And I'd cancel, but Sherlock's been especially prickly, John would kill me."

Mycroft sighed. He knew why, too. It was the fact that the one cop in all of New Scotland Yard that actually did more than just tolerate Sherlock's antics was taking a week off. Sherlock didn't handle change very well, John being the notable exception.

"Apparently, the loss of his pet detective for a week has made him a tad fractious," Mycroft admitted.

Greg laughed. "Nice to know I'm appreciated."

Mycroft leaned forward and purred, "Well, I appreciate you, too."

Greg blushed. "Are we still on for drinks on Friday?"

"Of course," the politician said.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yes, another day of lazing about. It's dreadful!"

Greg nudged his shoulder. "Yes, Mr. British Government. I'm rather enjoying the time off. I'll probably regret it when I get back, but for the moment I'm having fun."

"Good-bye, Gregory," Mycroft muttered.

"Good night, Mycroft," Greg said raising on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, "I can't wait to see you again." And then he slipped out the of the studio leaving a star-struck Mycroft and stunned Liya.

"I thought he was going to kiss you," Liya commented.

"So did I, so did I," Mycroft admitted softly.

Liya huffed her frustration and then shoved him out the door and into a waiting cab. She barked out an address that made Mycroft huff in annoyance, but wisely said nothing. Liya ignored his glares as she typed furiously on her phone.

Once they arrived, Mycroft glared at the gold numbering that proclaimed 221B on a dark wooden door. Liya grabbed his wrist and pulled him out of the cab, telling the cabbie to wait. They passed John coming out on his way to his pub night with Greg, and he and Liya shared a knowing glance.

Liya still had a firm hand on the middle Holmes brother's wrist as she dragged him up the stairs and shoved him to the sitting room. He tried to turn around when he saw, not just the resident Holmes brother, but the eldest as well.

"Not on your life, My. You will listen to what they have to say," she said, waving at Sherlock and Sherrinford before she turned and to descend the stairs.

"You aren't staying?" Mycroft squeaked.

"What? Heavens no, you don't need me here. I'll just be in the way. Ta!" She thundered down the stairs and was out the door before Mycroft even had time to lodge a protest.

He turned to look at his brothers. Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch in his pajama bottoms and t-shirt, his blue robe hanging off his narrow shoulders. His other brother was more smartly dressed in pair of blue jeans with a white dress shirt and suit coat. He sat in Sherlock's chair, his hands draped majestically over the arms. His left leg crossed over the other. And the world at large bemoaned the fact that this man chose to be an _actor_ when he could have been so much more.

Two pairs of intelligent blue eyes turned to him expectantly. Mycroft clutched his hands against the rising frustration. He crossed over to the empty chair and sat mirroring his older brother's pose. "So, what's this then? An intervention on the state of my love life?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and Sherrinford chuckled, "Why? Do you need one?" Sherrinford asked.

"No," Mycroft said, refusing to be baited.

"You two have been dancing around each other for far too long," Sherlock said as he moved to sit up.

"Like you and John, you mean?" the politician shot back.

"He was with someone else, he was always with someone else. What was I supposed to do?" Sherlock snarled.

"Enough!" Sherrinford snapped. "Mycroft, your relationship with Greg is as different from Sherlock and John's as night is to day. It would be like comparing apples to oranges. Hell, it's apples and rutabagas at this point."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, while Sherlock looked smug. Sherrinford rounded on his youngest sibling. "That does not mean you get to gloat, Sherlock. We're here to help him, not antagonize him." Sherlock's shoulders slumped, dejected. Sherrinford looked at his youngest brother a moment before turning to the middle child. "What is holding you back, My? He has clearly shown that he is more than a little interested. I've never seen the pair of you together, but he lights up when your name is mentioned."

Mycroft ran his hands over his face as he warred between evasion and just telling the truth. Had they been anyone other than his brothers, he would have gone for evasion. But he knew they all shared the same stubborn nature and could be as tenacious as bull dog with a bone.

"I'm worried he doesn't have the same depth of feeling I do. What he if he just wants a causal affair? I don't think I could handle that."

"Have you asked?" Sherlock piped up.

Mycroft jolted as if he was shocked. "I'm pretty sure that is not done, Sherlock."

Sherrinford chuckled. "Actually, it's very much done. People have these types of conversations all the time."

"Were they British?" Mycroft snapped.

"Some of them, yes."

"Were they Holmes men?" Mycroft returned.

"We are unusual, that's true, but more often than we were led to believe, the same rules apply to us as they do to everyone else."

Sherlock watched the proceedings like a spectator at Wimbledon. He held up his right hand, "Point to Ford!"

Sherrinford laughed. Mycroft glared.

"Alright, enough joking," Sherlock said moving to sit on the arm of Sherrinford's chair. "Let's make this incredibly simple. What do you want out of a romantic relationship with Lestrade?"

"I want what you two have," Mycroft said waving vaguely their general direction. Sherlock and Sherrinford shared a glance. "Someone to come home to," Mycroft continued. "Someone to spend forever with. Someone who understands me and likes me for who I am. And until Gregory, I didn't think such a person existed."

"Goldfish," his brothers said together.

"Exactly," Mycroft agreed.

"Do you think that Greg is the one person of all the fish in the sea that is right for you?" the elder Holmes brother asked.

Mycroft thought about it. "Yes. Yes, I do."

"Then you have your answer," Sherlock said.

"So, I do," the politician agreed.

***

Greg and John were on their third round when the doctor nudged his friend's shoulder.

"So what's this I hear? You spent the night at Mycroft's?" he teased.

Greg blushed. "It wasn't like that!" he protested. "Besides, how the hell would you know?"

"Liya."

The inspector sighed. "Should have known." He ran his hands over his face. "We were up late chatting, too late to call a taxi so he let me stay the night." John grinned evilly. "In the guest bedroom, for crying out loud. It was all very chaste."

"Oh, I'm sure it was, for you. But he could have driven you home. He has a fleet of cars. And I don't mean those black things he kidnaps people in." John covered his smile with his cup, taking a sip of his beer, unable to contain the amusement when Greg nearly choked on his pint.

He might not be Sherlock Holmes, but Greg Lestrade was a good detective before the lanky git came along. "He wanted me to stay?"

John took another sip of his drink. "Sounds that way, doesn't it?" His amusement colored his tone.

"Yeah," Greg said. His day was starting to look up.

"So, what did you two talk about?"

"Mostly our musical tastes. He plays the cello and I play the piano. Or I did before the divorce when she took the house and everything in it. Anyway he's got this beautiful Victorian-era grand piano that plays like a dream." Greg smiled wistfully.

"A cellist and pianist, huh? Ever heard of the Piano Guys?" Greg shook his head. "It's these two guys from the States that do mashups of pop and classic music. All the sounds are made with their instruments. They're pretty cool." John pulled out his phone and with a little difficulty he managed to pull up a video of one of their songs. He pressed play and handed the phone to Greg.

John watched in amusement as his friend's eyes grew wide and smile formed on his face. Greg moved to another song and John laughed.

"I wonder what they'd be like to see live."

"They're in town this week, actually," John said. "Hey, would you and Mycroft like to go? You see, Sherlock and I got tickets a couple weeks back and then the idiot tells me yesterday that he took a case at the end of week in Sussex or Brighton or some such place. Vampires apparently. The suspect won't be back in town until Friday, so that's when we're going. But that means no concert for me."

Greg blinked. "Yeah, sure. We can do that. Thanks, mate." "No problem. It's under Holmes. So, I'll just change the first name from Sherlock to Mycroft, and ta da! Tickets for you and Mycroft."

"Think he'll really enjoy this, thanks, John."

The small army doctor just smiled.

***

The next day saw Mycroft with a flask of coffee to share and Greg with a bag of Mycroft's favorite scones to do the same. They would share what they brought and then get down to work, just like the day before. The next two days followed the same pattern.

Friday came and went and the painting was done. Liya stood back to admire her work. It was good enough she supposed, but she had learned long ago to know when to let it go. She nodded at it and then went to wash up. When she came out she could hear the men talking.

"I know we said drinks tonight, but John got these tickets to a concert, but can't go and they're really good, I think you'll like them. It's this pianist and a cellist and they mash up classical and pop music and they're really incredible…" Greg finally stopped for breath. "I'm rambling, aren't I?"

"A bit," Mycroft conceded.

"What I'm trying to say, is will you go out with me to see this concert?"

"Of course, Gregory--"

"As my date," Greg said, cutting him off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are the Piano Guys https://www.youtube.com/user/ThePianoGuys  
> They are awesome. Seriously.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Chapter 9. I told you, you wouldn't have long to wait for your cliffhanger resolution. These next two chapters aren't up to my usual snuff because I just wanted to get them done and out for you people to read. I feel like I've been dragging the story out for too long. 
> 
> Thanks ever be to the lovely and patient old ping hai, who typed up this chapter, beta'ed it, and made sure it made sense for you lovely people.

Mycroft couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His jaw dropped, and his throat moved but no sound emerged.  
  
“I mean, if you’d rather—” Greg started.  
  
“Yes!” Mycroft nearly shouted the word. “Yes,” he said softer. “I’d love to be your date tonight.”  
  
“Great. Fantastic. I’ll pick you up at 6. Concert’s at 7. We’ll go for drinks afterward.”  
  
“I’ll look forward to it,” Mycroft said.  
  
Greg smiled and walked away to hail a taxi.  
  
The politician stood there with a silly grin on his face while Liya was messaging furiously the other members of Operation: Mystrade. It was only a date and a date did not a relationship make, after all. They still had to keep pressing them together. Boys are notoriously stubborn.   
  
She looked up to see that Mycroft’s grin had fallen away, leaving a look of abject terror in its place.  
  
“Mycroft?” Liya asked, so concerned she didn’t even use his pet name.  
  
“It’s been years since I’ve been on a date. I don’t know what to do, what to say, what to wear. It’s hopeless!”  
  
“It’ll be all right,” she assured him.  
  
She sent out a quick message to Mycroft’s PA and to Sherlock: Meet us at My’s place. He needs help with his date tonight—LM  
  
Liya then turned to the curb and whistled sharp and loud, and a taxi immediately appeared.  
  
She put Mycroft into the cab first before she got in herself.  
  
“It’ll be okay, My,” she promised. She placed a hand on his knee. Mycroft didn't have much hope. How could he do this? He couldn't. He wouldn't. He pulled out his phone and it was immediately snatched away.   
  
"You are going on this date, Mycroft Edmond Holmes. And he will love it. Trust me." The politician sighed. He had never wanted to impress anyone this much since he met the Queen. And she was a cake walk in comparison.   
  
When they arrived at the house, they could make out the sounds of arguing coming from the bedroom. As they neared, they could hear Mycroft’s PA say, “No, no, no. The pale blue would look better.”  
  
“God, no!” Sherlock groaned. “The pale blue washes him out entirely. The tan one. Brings warmth to his cheeks.”  
  
“Argh. It’s too yellow! He’ll look sick.”  
  
“No, he won’t,” Sherlock shot back.  
  
Mycroft entered the room and groaned. His PA and Sherlock had torn apart his closet, and clothes were strung about the room.  
  
“Don’t worry,” Sherlock said, looking up when they walked in. “I memorized where everything goes. It’ll be put back where it belongs after we’re done.”  
  
Mycroft was so overcome with relief that he sagged against the doorframe. Sherlock was as particular as he was when it came to how his clothes were arranged, and this insured that he would do as he promised.  
  
Sherlock grinned, he pulled his brother away from the door and into the room.   
  
Mycroft wasn’t sure how many outfits he tried on before all three agreed. He wore a tweed jacket with a bright white shirt and dove grey slacks.   
  
“This is ridiculous,” Mycroft huffed. “Why am I worrying about this? It doesn’t matter what I wear, I’ll look dreadful.”  
  
The ladies protested. Sherlock pushed them out the door and slammed it behind them.  
  
Mycroft rolled his eyes. The younger Holmes pushed him to sit on the bed.   
  
“I am only going to say this once,” Sherlock growled. “And if you tell anyone I said this, I will post those pictures of you in the little boy shorts when you were ten.”  
  
Mycroft gulped and nodded.  
  
“You look fine. There is nothing wrong with your weight. You are as addicted to sweets and exercise as I am to danger and cocaine. I tease you, but that’s all it is. You aren’t fat. In fact, you’re almost too thin. Our weight has always been an issue. You tending toward too much and me, too little. But I’m getting better at it. You can, too. What are you, fourteen stone?”  
  
Mycroft nodded again.   
  
“Any less than that and it’d be unhealthy. Honestly, you look great, Mycroft.”  
  
Mycroft blushed.  
  
“Gregory said I shouldn’t compare myself to you,” he admitted.   
  
“He’s right. First off, we have different builds, different metabolisms and lifestyles. Does this mean you should stop working out and eating right? No, of course not. But this obsession with your waistline isn’t right.”  
  
“It’ll take some time,” Mycroft said as he choked back tears.   
  
“I know, but you have people to help.” Sherlock put his hand on his brother's shoulder. He gave a brief squeeze before letting go.   
  
“Thank you,” the older Holmes whispered.   
  
Sherlock stepped back to allow Mycroft to stand and then called out, “All right, you can stop eavesdropping now.”   
  
Liya swore and pushed the door the rest of the way open. She saw both brothers standing side by side, looking bemused at her blatant attempt to spy.  
  
“Can’t fault a girl for trying,” she said, coming into the room.  
  
Sherlock turned back to Mycroft. “You’ll do fine. Besides, it’s obvious he fancies your arse.” He started putting away the clothes they had pulled out of the closet, ignoring the stunned looks from Mycroft and Liya.  
  
Liya was shocked Sherlock even knew how to put away clothes. While Mycroft was shocked his brother even knew the word 'arse.' He blamed John for his brother's new-found vulgarity.   
  
Mycroft smirked at Liya's expression. “Have you ever seen clothes strewn about Baker Street?”  
  
She thought about it and then shook her head.  
  
“My things require delicate care. My bedroom is spotless as well,” Sherlock said, as he began to put things back meticulously.  
  
Liya looked at her watch. “It’s about time.”   
  
Mycroft nodded and went to go sit in the living room to await Greg’s arrival.  
  
He had just poured himself a drink when the doorbell rang. His PA showed Greg to where Mycroft was waiting.   
  
Greg was in Mycroft’s favorite suit of his with a blue-grey button-up, the top two undone.  
  
Mycroft gulped.  
  
“Would you care for a drink before we go?” he asked, holding up his half-finished glass.  
  
“Sure, I’ll have what you’re having,” Greg said as he made his way further into the room. Mycroft made up Greg a drink and handed it to him.  
  
“This is really good,” Greg said appreciatively, after he took a sip.  
  
“Thank you,” Mycroft replied.   
  
They finished their drinks in comfortable silence and left.  
  
As they walked to the car, the Inspector put a possessive hand on the politician’s lower back.  
  
Mycroft relished in its warmth.  
  
Greg opened the door for Mycroft, and he slid into the front seat. Greg got in on the other side and they  drove off.  
  
“I saw a car out front. Was that your PA's?” he asked after a minute or two of silence.  
  
Mycroft blushed and nodded. “I don’t do casual very well and Liya brought in Andraya, my PA," he clarified, when Greg gave him a questioning look at the strange name, "and Sherlock to help pick out something for tonight.”  
  
“Okay, I get Liya and your PA helping, but how does Sherlock fit into all this?”  
  
“My brother is the master of disguise. He can dress to fit in anywhere. Plus,” Mycroft blushed, “that day at the crime scene when you liked the suit I was wearing. It was his suggestion.”   
  
Greg raised his eyebrows. “Oh.” Props to the younger Holmes, then, Greg thought.   
  
“Indeed.”  
  
They spent the rest of the drive in silence.  
  
They pulled up to the venue and got out. They walked up to Will Call and Mycroft pulled out his ID as he told the teller his name.  
  
“Right, here you go,” she said, handing Mycroft two tickets. “Enjoy the show.”  
  
“We will, thank you,” Mycroft replied.  
  
Halfway during the concert, Greg brushed his hand against Mycroft’s and the politician responded by taking the Inspector’s hand. They smiled at each other and then turned back to the concert.  
  
As they walked back to the car, Mycroft was happily chatting about the cellist.  
  
“He was amazing,” the politician gushed. “All those sounds just with him and his cello. It was incredible. Thank you so much for taking me.”  
  
“I’m glad John had the tickets to give.”  
  
They stopped and suddenly Greg was aware of how close they were standing. He looked up just as Mycroft looked down. Their faces were now a hair’s breadth away. Mycroft gasped as the silver-haired man closed the distance. Instantly Mycroft’s hands went to Greg’s shoulders. The kiss was soft and sweet, and it made Greg’s head swim. He placed his hands on Mycroft’s waist to steady himself. He was sure that if he hadn’t, his knees would have gone out.  
  
When they finally pulled apart, they were breathless. “Gregory,” Mycroft panted, “Gregory.”   
  
“Mycroft,” Greg breathed in reply.  
  
“What’s next?” the politician asked, as he fought to get his heart back into his chest.  
  
“Well, we’re going back to my place, I’m going to pop dinner into the oven and while it cooks, you and I will have a nice bottle of wine while we cozy up on the couch. And then after dinner, we’ll go from there,” Greg said.  
  
Mycroft chuckled. “Sounds lovely. But I meant for us.”  
  
Greg’s heart stopped.  
  
“Be mine, Mycroft.” Greg’s hand came up to Mycroft’s cheek. The politician leaned into his touch like a cat half-starved for attention.  
  
“For as long as you’ll have me,” he sighed.  
  
Greg kissed him.  
  
“Forever,” he promised.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is it, everyone, the last chapter. I want to thank everyone who commented, bookmarked, and followed this story. I'm glad you enjoyed reading it, as much as I did writing it. 
> 
> Thanks to the lovely old ping hai, the most wonderful beta in the universe.

Greg walked into work Monday morning, a smile on his lips and a spring in his step. When he got out of the elevator, however, he was met by DI Dimmock trying to hold back a vengeful Sally Donovan from Phillip Anderson.  
  
As he neared, he heard her screeching, “What do you mean, you were helping them?”  
  
“I mean exactly that. He deserves to be happy and you don’t get to decide who he wants to be happy with!”  
  
“Neither do you!”  
  
“What is wrong with him being with Mycroft?”  
  
That brought Greg up short.  
  
“Because he’s a Holmes! If he’s anything like that freak brother of his, then he’s bad. Twisted inside!”  
  
“Enough!” Greg barked out and everyone stopped. Sally turned pale and Anderson looked a tad triumphant.  
  
“Anthony," Greg told the other Inspector, "take Phillip to the loo to cool off. I’ll talk to you both later.”  
  
Dimmock nodded and tugged Anderson aside, and he went, if a trifle unwillingly.   
  
Greg turned to Sally. “My office. Now.”  
  
She huffed, first turning red and then stomping into his office, her fists clenched.  
  
“Sit down,” he ordered as he moved around to his side of the desk. “First, you will explain what’s going on, and then you are going to give me a reason why I shouldn't suspend you.”  
  
“But, sir!” Sally exclaimed.  
  
“First things first,” he growled.  
  
“Fine. Apparently Anderson is in on some plot to hook you up with the fre—” She stopped when he glared her. “With Sherlock’s brother,” she amended.  
  
Greg laughed. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Liya Mason sure does love her plots.”  
  
“Who, sir?” she asked.  
  
“Liya Mason. Famous painter. She also happens to be Mycroft and Sherlock’s sister-in-law.”  
  
“Whoa, whoa, whoa." Sally looked perplexed. "First off, you said Mason, not Holmes; and second, there’s another Holmes?”  
  
“She kept her maiden name because she was already well-known by that name in the art community. And actually, you’ve met her. And her husband. Do you remember that art case a couple of months back?”  
  
“Oh, you mean the red-head?” she asked.  
  
“That’s the one. Do you remember the man she was with?”  
  
“Tall fellow, dark, curly hair?”  
  
“That’s him.”  
  
“He’s a Holmes? But he seemed so normal.”  
  
“Apparently, Sherrinford is the normal one.”  
  
Sally sat back in her chair, annoyed.  
  
“Not that there is anything wrong with being different, and after what you said, I am tempted to do more than just suspend you. Sherlock Holmes is no more twisted than you or I. So what if he takes pleasure in solving weird and unusual crimes? I’d rather have someone like that than someone who’s only in for the money. And don't tell me you can’t name five cops that couldn’t care less about the victims.”  
  
Sally frowned. She could list a lot more than five.  
  
“Plus there’s the fact that you had to be visibly restrained.”  
  
“I just lost it. I know it was unprofessional of me, but I had warned Sherlock to keep his brother away from you and then Anderson goes and helps him?”  
  
“I’m guessing his help was to lure you away when Mycroft was on site.”  
  
“Apparently,” she growled.  
  
There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Greg called. A young sergeant pushed his head in. “A package came for you.”  
  
“Excellent! Bring it in.” The sergeant ducked back out and returned with a small, very fragrant package. Sally caught a whiff and leaned forward in her seat.  
  
“Back off,” Greg snarled. “Mine!”  
  
“Is that coffee?” she asked.  
  
“No, it’s heaven in a cup. And I’ve got another package just like this one waiting for me at home.”  
  
“Must be expensive,” she murmured, still leaning close to the coffee.  
  
“Mycroft sent it.” Greg just hummed as he cradled the bag of fresh-ground coffee.  
  
“Two-week suspension and a month of sensitivity training.”  
  
Sally snapped her head back. She opened her mouth to protest, and then shut it again. She nodded.  
  
“If Dimmock and Anderson are out there, send them in."  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
About a minute later, Anderson and Dimmock came in.  
  
“So, I hear you’ve got a new cock in your roost, Lestrade,” Dimmock said, flopping into a chair. Anderson grinned, but stayed standing by the door.    
  
“So I do,” Greg replied.  
  
“He good to you?” Dimmock asked.  
  
Greg held up the bag of coffee and the other two men whistled.  
  
“Smart man. Knows a cop can make or break a case based on his coffee alone,” Dimmock said with a grin. “Looks like I’m going to have to step up my game if I’m to compete.”  
  
Greg laughed.  
  
Dimmock stood up. “Rein in your hellcat, Lestrade. She’s trouble.”  
  
“Already on it.”  
  
“Good.” He strode out, leaving Anderson behind.  
  
“I’m happy for you, sir,” he said, looking at his boss.  
  
“Thanks, Phillip. So, why did you decided to get involved?”  
  
Anderson huffed and leaned against the door frame.  
  
“Because I had a lot to atone for. My failed marriage, my infidelity, my part in Sherlock’s fall. Plus, I remembered how Emily flipped out on you when you confronted her about the affair. I wanted to see you honestly smile again.”  
  
Greg cracked a smile. “Thanks.”  
  
“And there it is,” Anderson said, straightening back up. He walked out the door.  
  
Greg got to work filling out the incident sheet for Sgt. Donovan’s outburst. She was a bit headstrong, but she was a good cop.  
  
He was just finishing up her sensitivity-training paperwork when his door slammed open, revealing a Sherlock Holmes with a package.  
  
“Good morning, Sherlock,” Greg said, nodding to the package. “What’s that?”  
  
“Even though John says it’s not usually done, I wanted to give you a gift to congratulate you on your new relationship with my brother.”  
  
Greg blinked. “Well, thank you,” he said, taking the package from Sherlock. He opened it up to reveal sheet music.  
  
“Fauré's Romance for cello and piano Op. 69?”   
  
"The piano part, yes. Mycroft should be opening his package as we speak, which has the cello part. Though John laughed at the number. I'm not sure why.”  Sherlock’s phone went off just then. He looked at it and then showed it to Greg.  
  
 _Thank you, brother dear_ — M  
  
“Thank you, Sherlock,” Greg added.   
  
"I still don't understand what is so funny about the number. He wouldn't tell me," he whined. "Though we did perform fellatio simultaneously on each other afterwards," he frowned thoughtfully, wondering if that had something to do with it. He liked it of course. He was just confused.   
  
Greg huffed out a laugh. "That- that what you just described is called a 69, Sherlock."  
  
The detective nodded stiffly and strolled out.  
  
His phone rang.  
  
 _Baby 'cause in the dark, you can't see shiny cars_  
 _And that's when you need me there_  
 _With you, I'll always share_

_Because when the sun shines, we'll shine together_   
_Told you I'll be here forever_   
_Said I'll always be your friend_   
_Took an oath, I'ma stick it out to the end_

"Hey, love,” he said in greeting.  
  
“Hello, Gregory. I take it you got my package.”  
  
“Yeah, and Sherlock’s, too. He hand-delivered it, actually.”  
  
“I’m impressed. Mine only came with a note.”  
  
“Oh?” Greg asked. “What did it say?”  
  
“ ‘Now you no longer have to play solo.’ ”  
  
There was silence on both ends before Greg broke in with a single, “Wow.”  
  
“Indeed.”  
  
“Can I see you tonight?” the Inspector asked, a distinct yearning in his tone.   
  
“I’m afraid I can’t," Mycroft's voice was full of regret. "When I got back to the office today, I was told that I had to go out to Greece tonight.”  
  
“Ah. Well at least I got you all weekend.”  
  
“Very much so. I will be back in time for our weekly drinks, though.”  
  
“How about dinner at my place instead?”  
  
“Sounds lovely. Until then, Gregory.”  
  
“Text me and call me whenever you can?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“Goodbye, love.”  
  
“Goodbye.”  
  
***  
  
Greg nervously got dressed for the gallery opening of Liya’s painting. It had been a pleasant month as far as his relationship with Mycroft was concerned. Of course, there were times when one or the other would have to bow out due to work, but whoever had to cancel would insure he made it up to the other. A phone call, a gift, late-night drinks.  
  
Sally had even come around when faced with the sheer force of how happy he was.  
  
He was trying to tie his bow, but his hands shook too badly. A hand slipped around his waist and he leaned back into the warm embrace.  
  
“Nervous?” Mycroft asked.  
  
Greg turned around. “Well, I’ve never been to one of these before. I don’t want to embarrass you or Liya.”  
  
Mycroft kissed him. “Not possible. Plus John will be there, so you’ll have someone to commiserate with.”  
  
“True. Now if only my hands would stop shaking so I can tie this bloody tie.” He turned back to the mirror for another go. “Why couldn’t I have gotten the pre-tied one. It would have been easier." Mycroft's hands came up and began tying it for him.  
  
“Because most people can tell the difference. Even those who’ve only seen them at weddings.”  
  
Greg stopped. He knew Mycroft had a point, but he hated the damn thing. Mycroft lowered his hands to reveal the perfect bow tie.  
  
“Thanks, love.” Greg turned around and kissed Mycroft. “You ready?”  
  
The politician nodded and took Greg’s hand; the silver-haired man grinned. He couldn’t believe how lucky he was. Mycroft led the way to the car. A standard black with tinted windows.  
  
They arrived at the Tate Modern to a glittering round of who’s who of the well-to-do. Greg could see some of his favorite actors and musicians in attendance.  
  
“My, what am I doing here? Seriously, what?”  
  
Mycroft leaned in to whisper in his ear. “You belong here even more than they do. It’s your image they’re here to see.”  
  
Greg blushed. “Well yours, too,” he reminded the politician.  
  
“Hmm, true.”  
  
Their first stop was the painting. It was displayed on its own wall in the center of the exhibit room.  
  
“Well, I can say one thing about the painting,” Greg said, staring up at the thing.  
  
“What’s that?”   
  
“Unless you’re told it’s us, you can’t see the resemblance.”  
  
“Very true,” Mycroft agreed.  
  
Their next stop was the artist herself. And it appeared that Sherlock and John were already chatting with Liya and Sherrinford.  
  
“Ah,” Liya said as they neared. “The men of the hour.” She raised a glass. “To Greggy and My.”  
  
“Greggy?” the man in question asked.  
  
“Oh, dear,” Sherrinford said. “You’re stuck now. Once she christens you with a nickname, you’re part of the family.”  
  
“What’s John’s nickname, then?” Greg asked.  
  
John’s hand gripped his glass so tight, Greg feared for its continued existence.  
  
Liya glanced at the clenched jaw of the former army doctor and winced.  
  
“I had one, but it appears to have been used previously by a psychopath with a penchant for semtex.”  
  
“Oh.” Yes. He could see the problem. No one in his right mind would like a nickname given to him by a psychopath.  
  
“Ooh. How about ‘Doc’?”she asked.  
  
John relaxed a trifle. “Better than the alternative, I suppose.”  
  
She patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, we’ll get there.”  
  
Sherlock inspected his nails and drolled, seemingly uninterested, “What about Captain?”  
  
Everyone turned to him with shocked expressions.   
  
“What?” Sherlock huffed. “It was his rank in the army.”  
  
Liya thought it over and then turned back to John. “So, what do you think?”   
  
“Sure,” John shrugged.  
  
“Fantastic!”  
  
“You’re stuck with us now, John,” Sherrinford reminded him.  
  
John took Sherlock’s hand and stared up at the detective. “It’s all right. I didn’t have plans on leaving anyway.”   
  
Sherlock smiled down at the good doctor.  
  
Greg opened his mouth to ask whether they had thought about making it permanent when he heard a screech behind him. He turned around to see a buxom blonde heading his direction.  
  
He stepped in front of Mycroft to shield him from the blast, to everyone’s amusement.  
  
“What the hell are you doing here, Greg?” the blonde sneered. “Schmoozing up to the artist? And you didn’t even know who she was until I told you about her.”   
  
Greg rolled his eyes. “Hello, Emily,” he sighed, confirming her identity to everyone. “You remember Sherlock, don’t you?” It was a rhetorical question; of course she remembered the man who outed her numerous affairs. Emily growled at him, and John stepped in front of Sherlock and scowled.  
  
“Let me introduce his family to you.”   
  
Her head snapped back.  
  
“The man glaring at you is his long-time partner and recent boyfriend, Dr. John Watson, former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”  
  
She took a step back.  
  
“The dashingly handsome man next to him is his brother, Mycroft. A minor politician for the British government.” Greg winked once then added, “When he’s not consulting with the Secret Service, the CIA or Mossad.”  
  
“Don’t forget the Kremlin, Gregory dear,” Mycroft added, deciding to play along this time.  
  
Greg snapped his fingers. “Of course. Always forget that one.”  
  
Emily’s eyes narrowed. “ ‘Gregory dear’? I thought you were fucking some ginger chick. Taking a swing at both sides now, Gregory dear?” she mocked.  
  
Greg ignored her and went on with the introductions as though she hadn’t said a word.  
   
“The other gentleman is Sherrinford Holmes, Mycroft and Sherlock’s actor older brother. Of course, you probably know him better by his stage name…”   
  
Her jaw dropped in recognition. “Oh, God,” Emily muttered.  
  
Greg stepped to the side to reveal Liya. “Meet Sherrinford’s wife, the artist Liya Mason, and ginger chick you think I’ve been fucking. Which is ridiculous for a number of reasons.  
  
“One, she’s in love with her husband. Two, her brothers-in-law would kick my ass if I even tried to make a move on her.”  
  
Sherlock and Mycroft grinned like hyenas.  
  
“Three, the reason I was seen so often going to her loft is because she was painting me.”  
  
Emily’s eyes went wide with shock.   
  
“Yes, Emily. That painting. I’m Cromwell and Mycroft is King Charles.”  
  
She took another step back.   
  
“And lastly, because apparently you forgot I was gay when I met you and am still gay. So, yes, Mycroft and I are dating.” He grabbed Mycroft and pulled him in for a long, slow, sweet kiss.  
  
Emily sputtered and stormed off in a huff.  
  
Everyone began to clap.  
  
Greg gently pulled away.   
  
“I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing her again?” Mycroft drolled.  
  
Greg huffed out a laugh.  
  
“No. Who needs her when I have you?”  
  
“Exactly.”  
  
Liya leaned up against Sherrinford. “They really do suit each other, don’t they?”  
  
“Yes, my dear. Indeed they do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And no, I do not regret the song choice for Greg's ringtone for Mycroft.


End file.
